


5 times arthur called him "mr. eames"

by surelytothesea (fourhorsemen)



Series: The 'Times' Verse [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: 5 Times, Friendship/Love, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-06
Packaged: 2018-04-13 07:16:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4512879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fourhorsemen/pseuds/surelytothesea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>and 1 time he didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	5 times arthur called him "mr. eames"

**Author's Note:**

> Not based upon any prompt. For the sake of this fic, I stole Tom Hardy's first name for Eames.

1.

“Go to sleep, Mr. Eames,” he said, the slightest edge of fondness to his formal tone. At times, their antagonism was almost friendly; consequently what Eames strived for – not that he would ever tell Arthur this.

Eames closed his eyes with a smile pulling at his lips.

 

2. 

“I would appreciate it, if you’d stop interrupting me Mr. Eames,” Arthur said through gritted teeth, throwing a glare his way. Arthur did not like being interrupted.

Eames smirked. He loved riling him up, stripping away that control, poker face cracking to reveal childish dislike. In every man there is a child, even Arthur. 

And no one knew how better to bring it out than Eames.

 

3.

Eames coughed, hunched over, arms around his stomach and trying to keep his guts from spilling all over the bloody floor. He chuckled inwardly, it really was a very bloody floor since he himself had been bleeding over it for the past ten minutes or so. 

“Mr. Eames, you need a hospital,” Arthur said, expression _concerned_ (Eames would later tease him about this and pretend to swoon). His uncharacteristically worried tone would have made Eames smile, if he hadn’t been grimacing in pain.

“It’s alright, darling. Yusuf will handle me,” Eames said and looked up to grin rakishly at Arthur. Arthur’s stern expression conveyed his opinions of Yusuf’s capabilities as a doctor very scathingly. Arthur sighed, retrieved Eames’ phone from his coat pocket and dialed.

Pity this wasn’t a dream.

 

4.

“Arthur, darling. Fancy meeting you here,” Eames said, an impish grin stretching across his face. Arthur just barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes, Eames could tell. His grin grew wider. Ever since Fischer, it seemed Arthur and Eames are on high demand.

Not just Arthur, or Eames. Arthur _and_ Eames. This was a never-ending source of aggravation for Arthur and due to this, a never-ending source of amusement for Eames. Of course, Ariadne and Yusuf were similarly on demand but Eames chose to ignore this. 

“Hello, Mr. Eames,” Arthur said politely, nodding at him and then at the other team members.

Team members who consisted of an extractor who went by Thompson; who was flourishing in the industry, thanks to Cobb’s retirement and an architect Eames had never had the pleasure of meeting, called Emily. A chemist hadn’t been needed, considering this job was fairly simple – one dream level, extraction of an idea. Typical, if not for the militarized conscience of the mark which was the sole reason why Arthur and Eames had been needed. Eames as a distraction and Arthur as security. They made a good pair, to Arthur’s chagrin. 

With quick introductions, and a brief summary of the job from their client (who then left, clearly confident in their abilities), everyone set off to their respective corners. Emily was discussing her ideas with Thompson and Eames trailed after Arthur, who was making his way to a desk where no doubt he’d set up his computer and find out all that was to be known about their mark, a stockbroker by the name of Jeremy Hall.

Matching his steps with Arthur, Eames leaned in to whisper in his ear:

“Why do you insist on calling me Mr. Eames, it makes me sound so very old.”

Arthur scoffed something along the lines of “you _are_ old” and retreated to his desk as Eames pretended to be affronted and leered quite obviously at Emily.

(He wasn’t attracted to her in the slightest.)

 

5.

“Mr. Eames,” Arthur said urgently, “ _Mr. Eames_ ,” he repeated, slapping him sharply on the cheek. Eames blinked groggily, Arthur’s worried face blurring in and out of focus.

“We need to leave immediately, Mr. Eames,” he hissed, yanking him out of his chair, quickly pulling the PASIV line out of his arm.  Eames finally snapped into focus.

Of course, he remembered now.

Emily, sweet innocent barely-twenty Emily, of all people had sold them out. It had been an easy job, almost _too_ easy, Eames thought retrospectively. They had been expecting the Hall’s conscience to be heavily militarized, but instead had gotten hardly any murderous projections at all.

Turns out, Emily had been paid off by the Hall and he’d known what was coming. He’d been all set to give them exactly the wrong idea they’d been after – which would have lead to the downfall of their own client and been absolutely disastrous for their future dream-scape careers.

Fortunately, Thompson had lived up to his name and had known something was up, even before Arthur (Eames had been impressed, to say the least). They’d made it out by the skin of their teeth as the entire landscape collapsed around them, Thompson shot cleanly between the eyes by Arthur so he could give them the kick.

So here they were.

Arthur wiping down every surface they had touched as Thompson restrained Emily and Hall, still asleep, muttering a few choice words to her as he did as Eames quickly yanked the PASIV lines right out of their wrists, uncaring of the effects of being severed from the somnacin while still in the dream state. He packed up the case quickly and efficiently and five minutes later Thompson, Eames and Arthur were all out of the building.

Thompson gave them a quick salute, taking off into a run, probably going to hail a cab a few blocks away. Eames lingered, staring at the building in front of them, half convinced it was going to dissolve and collapse around them. He put his hand into his pocket and fingered his totem. Its weight rested comfortingly in his palm.  

“Mr. Eames,” Arthur said abruptly. Eames jumped a bit; he hadn’t expected the man to still be here. He turned to look at Arthur and nodded encouragingly. It wasn’t often Arthur initiated a conversation with Eames. He certainly never did when they were supposed to be splitting ways and not seeing each other for the next few months. 

“I hope to work with you again, in… less extenuating circumstances,” he said quietly, looking seriously at Eames with just a hint of something even Eames, a conman and a forger, could not make out.

“Of course,” Eames said, staring at Arthur in bewilderment as he walked away, crossing the street and disappearing into the shadows.

Eames fingered his totem again, just to be sure.

 

+1

“And we meet again,” Eames drawled. Arthur mouth turned up in the slightest smirk.

“And here I was hoping our next meeting would be in better circumstances,” he said sardonically. Eames glared half-heartedly at him from across the bars separating them.

“You were my best shot,” Eames muttered, hard-pressed to admit this. Arthur smiled smugly.

“You mean the only one you could call,” he said, an infuriating smirk on his face. Eames scowled. Arthur was by no means his only friend. His other friends were… just not quite as useful in times of need. He refrained from telling the man this, it would only make his head grow bigger. 

“Well, Mr. Thomas Eames, you are hereby acquitted of all charges; including petty theft, breaking and entering, indecent exposure..” – “That was _one time-_ ” Eames protested but was cut off swiftly and professionally, “and grand larceny,” Arthur said conversationally. As if they weren’t both standing in one of Britain’s most high security prisons. Never again was Eames taking the risk of visiting his mother.

A guard arrived, just on time, promptly unlocking Eames’ cell and handing him a key.

“Your belongings are in the lockers,” he said succinctly and left. More reasons to dislike his home country, prison guards were just so _cold_. Eames – for the lack of a better word – pouted. Arthur chuckled fondly, shooting him a glance as Eames stretched and groaned as his joints popped.

They walked companionably down the hallway, Eames regaling Arthur with grand tales of his times in prison (more than one) and Arthur looking both disapproving and affectionate. Eames ignored this in favour of continuing his stories, he wasn’t sure he could handle an Arthur who showed emotions such as ... affection. Perhaps his eyes were playing tricks on him.

When Eames had changed, grabbed his bag and felt around for his totem still in his pocket (thankfully untouched, the weight felt the same, the stenciled lettering on the poker chip smooth to the touch), and was far, far away from the accursed building he had spent far too long in (three months), he finally asked what had been nagging at him all this while.

“Why didn’t you just break me out? Why go to the trouble of clearing me off all the charges against me? Which are plenty more than the ones you listed, by the by,” Eames asked, tone questioning and more than a touch confused. Arthur glanced at him, smiled just the slightest bit before it was gone, like Eames’ eyes were playing tricks on him.

“I thought about it. I have the blueprint of that prison memorized, it wouldn’t have been too hard, with the right resources… but…” Arthur trailed off. Eames looked at him sharply. Arthur was not one to trail off. He said what he had to say succinctly and precisely, not a second wasted in conveying his thoughts. Eames would know, with how many years he had spent – was still spending – trying to crack the shell of the very best point man the world had to offer. 

“I thought Mr. Eames may prefer to run away, but maybe Thomas would rather have the freedom to visit his mother without being thrown into prison the moment he put a foot in his house,” Arthur said softly, glancing at him warily, gauging his reaction.

Eames was stunned.

“I-… Thank you. Arthur. Truly,” Eames said breathlessly, staring at the man, trying to figure out what had changed in the half year that he hadn’t seen Arthur.

Or perhaps nothing had changed. Eames was starting to realize that he had overlooked far too much when it came to Arthur. A cardinal sin for a forger, he’d just been brushing the surface, ignoring the meaning behind his glances and gestures, looking at Arthur the point man, not Arthur the person. 

Thomas. Arthur had called him Mr. Eames countless times, but Thomas but once. Eames was starting to understand the difference. He had the uncanny feeling that Arthur would someday make a very good forger… and to think Eames had once told Cobb Arthur had no imagination. 

Eames looked at Arthur, who stared back confidently, but now Eames _looked_ , he could see Arthur’s tense shoulders, the slightest furrow to his brow, how hard he was trying to hold Eames’ gaze. Arthur was _nervous_. Eames smiled, genuinely smiled.

“You should call me Thomas more often, darling,” he said and Arthur visibly relaxed, smiling back with his face softened of all edges ( _Arthur the person_ , Eames thought).

“I’ll be sure to consider that, Mr. Eames,” Arthur said, smile unwavering.


End file.
